By the time she spoke, they had worked the barrow into the lane and pushed it past a burning stable where the sound and smell of burning horses grew so overpowering both girls had to stop, bend over hands on knees coughing, and do their best not to retch. For Margaret, the struggle was lost, but she at least had sense enough to move the rag aside.
When she had finished, she pulled the rag back down. “Let us see what we can do.”
The first order of business presented itself at once. A young boy of perhaps twelve stumbled from a house carrying a baby of around a year. The boy was coughing ferociously, but looking proud of his accomplishments, as well he should. The baby was screaming, which Elizabeth took for a good sign.
Lizzy asked in alarm, “Your parents, son. Are they inside? Or anyone else?”
“No, ma’am. They be over at the Vernon estate. Me sister ‘twer with us, but she went to her friend’s a few hours past, and I’ve not seen her. I should have taken Sis and run, but I didna know what to do.”
“You have done well, young man. Very well indeed!”
Lizzy took the baby. The child was crying, coughing quite a lot, and unsurprisingly wet, but otherwise likely to survive.
“What is your name, lad?”
“Ewan, ma’am.”
The boy followed this with a ferocious fit of coughing but seemed otherwise unharmed.
“Well, Ewan—you have done well. Tell me: are you strong enough to push that barrow, with your sister and a few others, out to the apple orchard back that way?”
“I can push her to London if’n I must.”
“I doubt that will be necessary. Let us see who else we can find, shall we?”
She returned the baby to Ewan and continued down the street, eyes stinging, throat raw, scanning doorways. It took only minutes to find a few more girls and boys aged ten to fifteen, some carrying younger siblings, some hauling friends by the hand, others shepherding strangers found along the way. A knot of older villagers had collected as well. The young bore it better; a few wheezed and coughed, but they at least walked. The elders fared worse—grey faces, slack mouths, the slow, fearful labour of each breath—yet none had fallen or seemed likely to.
Lizzy set herself to directing them. Fortunately, several years of managing a house full of stubborn, independent girls, along with some time organising fairs and helping in other emergencies, including two other fires; had taught her to give orders with the ladylike subtlety of an ill-tempered sergeant. She distributed the kerchiefs made from petticoats to the most affected, saved the rest for greater need, and set to work.
Margaret stood in wonder as her friend worked. Lizzy was only five years older but seemed a dozen. With each new set of stragglers, they rearranged the group with each person carrying or leading a younger child as large as they were capable of moving. The smallest were passed to healthy siblings where possible or laid in the barrow if necessary. She had two of the older lads take charge of the ladders, and kept the little procession from tangling itself into useless panic by moving people, trading places, and insisting—calmly, sharply—on obedience.
Within ten minutes, a few mothers and older sisters joined them, and Elizabeth seized the opportunity. She asked one woman to take charge. The matron was distracted by four children clinging to her skirts, but she nodded all the same, and that would do.
Elizabeth bade them go together, with the barrow and two more from various shops out to the orchard. She hoped others would follow, for she did not know the village well enough to offer anything better, and no one she questioned could think of another refuge. Mrs Wythe waited at the orchard with water, bandages, and clean air—which was more than they had in the village.
As the group departed, Elizabeth drew two of the oldest boys aside and bade them return with all haste with the barrows, ensuring they brought a full report from Mrs Wythe. Both promised, and the group moved out.
An ear-piercing scream snapped Elizabeth’s attention from the departing villagers. She spun around looking frantically for the source, and her heart dropped to her boots. Two floors above the street, a woman was busily smashing out a window with a chair leg, a screaming baby clutched in her other arm. Smoke billowed from the windows below and fire was approaching from behind. There was no chance the woman could escape alone, let alone with the child.
Elizabeth blessed the fortune that had found them the ladders, so she bellowed. “MARGIE! The ladder!”
They ran, seized the ladder, and rushed back towards the burning building. Quite a few men stumbled out of other buildings, but most were either dragging the injured, coughing too violently to be of use, or both. Some moved so poorly they might not even save themselves. She paused beside an elderlyman and thrust the remaining strips of petticoat into his hand to distribute.
When they arrived before the burning building, she cried, “Drop the bottom in that ditch.”
With the base anchored, Elizabeth did as she had seen field hands in Hertfordshire do. She grabbed the top rung and started walking it hand-over-hand towards the bottom, pushing the top up with each rung. Halfway up, the ladder grew too heavy to lift alone, but just as her strength gave out, Margie jumped in beside her.
By sheer luck, the top of the ladder landed a few feet beneath the window. Elizabeth could not say whether her unconscious mind was smarter than she credited, or fortune was smiling upon her. In the end, it did not matter. Without a second thought, she started climbing.
Halfway up, fear nearly drove her back down, for something in the first-floor window exploded, spraying glass splinters across her face. A thick plume of smoke and heat smote her like an avenging god, and she started coughing ferociously. Blood dripped from cuts on her forehead, but other than feeling like a half-roasted chicken, she remained serviceable. Supposing that was the end of the excitement for the moment, she resumed climbing as fast as she could.
An instant later, she was just below the window, and the woman handed the baby down. Elizabeth reached for the child. The backs of her hands were bleeding, though not profusely enough to do more than annoy her.
The woman croaked rather than yelled, after coughing several times and spitting a great gob on the floor.
“Take the child, girl! She is your responsibility now, understand?”
“Of course! But you will let me help you?”
